


The Destruction of Lindisfarne

by BoundLight



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 8th Century, Get ready for some history guys!, Historical, Holy Island, Lindisfarne, M/M, Monks, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:06:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22261540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoundLight/pseuds/BoundLight
Summary: It is well known that Crowley and Aziraphale have been running into each other throughout all of human history. This is one such example. May I present to you the story of Lindisfarne, and its destruction.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 15





	The Destruction of Lindisfarne

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at historical fiction. I did a fair bit of research... this is as accurate as I can make it! Please forgive any mistakes :)

Aziraphale stood just outside the walls of the monastery. He closed his eyes and breathed the the salt tinged air, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face. The rain was so frequent it was a treat to enjoy the sun, especially in the morning. His tousled curls glowed nearly white in the morning light, making him look every inch the Angel he was. He was wearing a plain brown robe that reached down to his feet. A simple, but standard outfit for where he was. It wasn't particularly flattering, or comfortable, but it was what he needed to blend in.

Lindisfarne was a beautiful island. The monastery took up a decent portion of the island, and was taken care of by a group of Monks, who were all righteous men, but still plagued by all the inner politics and minor cruelties that tended to follow any group of humans. The rest of the island had been settled by a group of people from the mainland, and they provided the monastery with food and fabric, but otherwise kept to themselves. It was a small, insular community that had become known throughout the known world as the Holy Island. A curious nickname that had prompted Aziraphale to look in on the humans residing there.

Aziraphale had spent the last decade or so inside the monastery. No one was really sure who he actually was, or where he'd come from. Whenever the subject was raised, Aziraphale would just smile pleasantly, and radiate a pure obliviousness. This tended to create an awkward atmosphere, and eventually the inquiring human would wander away instead of trying to sort out the odd man, and wouldn't ask again. A few of the Monks became convinced that the odd man was simply mute, and Aziraphale made no effort to dissuade them of the thought.

The Monks at the monastery spent the majority of their time praying, reading the bible, and meditating. When they weren't trying to focus their minds to God, they would do various chores or repairs around the monastery, cook, wash clothing, or go out into the nearby town and assist with farming, and education of the male children.

Aziraphale swept.

No one had told him to. He just knew that everywhere needed to be swept basically all the time. He could go anywhere, do anything, and for the most part no one would spare him a thought as long as he had a broom in his hand. He did his best to visit every corridor, every room, and spread his angelic influence. He wasn't sure how successful he ultimately was, but the books were extensive, and the illuminated manuscript wad divine. In all, he was content to stay for a while.

In truth, the library was one of his favorite places to go, and where he often ended up. It was especially empty during mass. He felt like a bad Angel for even thinking it, but the peace of the library and the isolation it afforded was far more pleasant than kneeling in a cathedral surrounded by quietly devoted men. He tried to make himself feel better by reminding himself that everyone needed time alone some times, even humans. He didn't need to be around them _all_ the time, really. He didn't even need to be around them most of the time. He put in a solid eight hours a day keeping the Monk's focus on God, and in all was proud of his work. His reports to Heaven were quite positive.

He sighed happily as he watched the sunrise.

“Nice, isn't it?”

Aziraphale jumped. “Crowley?”

“In the flesh. I was wondering where you'd got to. Should have figured you'd end up at the _Holy Island_. That's not your doing, is it?”

Aziraphale huffed. “I'm not that vain. I was curious how it got the name, so I decided to see. What are you doing here? How are you even here for that matter. This is the Holy Island, how can you step foot here?”

Crowley shrugged and stretched languidly. Aziraphale took the opportunity to subtly eye his form, clearly for professional reasons only. He was surprised Crowley wasn't wearing the fine clothing of a Lord. Instead he was wearing the simple garb of a farmer.

“The _monastery_ is consecrated, angel. Not every inch of the island.” He smiled at Aziraphale, his eyes racking over the angel without a hint of shame. “I'm amazed you were able to forgo your usual comforts. From what I hear it's pretty drab in there.”

“I'm not tempted by simple pleasures, my dear,” Aziraphale sniffed. “The Lord's work is all the pleasure I need.”

“Of course, of course, silly me. Of course you like waking early, eating whatever mush this lot makes, wearing scratchy, shapeless bags...”

“How would you know if they're scratchy?”

“Ehh...” Crowley ran a hand through his hair a tad guiltily. “I... may have tried to infiltrate your monastery.”

“Crowley!”

“Oh, hush, angel. I couldn't step foot in your precious club. You know that.”

“I'm surprised you're here at all then.”

“Ready to be rid of me so soon?” Crowley teased.

“No,” Aziraphale blushed a little. “Just curious.”

Crowley looked out at the fields near the monastery which were already filling with men and a few women, radiating innocence. “Why shouldn't I be here? These are just people, angel. They're not all Monks here. And people, well, they can say they're religious all they like, but they care more about each other, their children, their land, and they live and sin just as much as anyone else, anywhere else. They could use a bit of sinning every now and then if you ask me.”

Aziraphale's eyes narrowed. “No, really. Why are you here?”

“I just gave you an answer.”

“I don't know what that was, but it wasn't an answer.”

“Then... the miracles.” Crowley's eyes lit up at the defense. “Exactly, I'm clearly interested in the miracles that are rumored to have happened here. Odd world if human's could do miracles, right?”

“Hmm.” Aziraphale didn't look at all convinced, but Crowley smiled hard, putting all his confidence into it. “Wait, no, that doesn't make sense.”

Crowley flinched.

“Those happened... at least a hundred years ago.”

“Well... time is... you know, relative, right?”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I just mean that time is a construct, right? Something humanity created to count down the seconds of their already remarkably short lives. You can't honestly expect me to adhere to it.”

“After all this time do you really think I can't tell when you're lying?”

Crowley sighed. “Alright, angel. My side sent me. Seems something is afoot, and I'm meant to help however I can.”

“...But... there's no one here of any importance. They're just Monks. It's not like anything here will actually effect the rest of the world.”

Crowley pulled a face. “Not just Monks, angel. Don't forget the innocents. You're surrounded by children out in that town. I don't like it.”

“What could they possibly want you to do?”

“I don't know!”

“Then... just don't participate, dear.”

In an instant Crowley had Aziraphale up against the perimeter wall, a tight hand clenched in the fabric of his robe, holding him in place. “Do you think I'd be here if I didn't have to be?” he hissed.

“Well...” Aziraphale said carefully, his eyes drawn to the demon's mouth. He forced his eyes back up. “Do you know when it will happen? Maybe we can stop it.”

Crowley grumbled, his grip loosening, though he didn't step away. “Do you really want to help?”

“Of course.”

“Then tell them to leave. Tell everyone to leave. If no one is here... then nothing can happen, right?”

“They all consider this to be a _holy island_ , remember? It's the seat of their religion. They're not going to abandon it.”

Crowley growled, and shoved Aziraphale again, crowding close. “Then what do you suggest?”

Aziraphale swallowed audibly at the feel of the demon against him, and for a moment forgot what they were even talking about.

“Angel?”  
  


He forced himself to focus.

Crowley grumbled and stepped back, bouncing slightly with nerves.

Looking at him, the sun catching the bright red hair and making it glow like fire, gave Aziraphale an idea. A smile spread across his face.

Crowley noticed immediately and paused, eyeing him suspiciously. “What?”

“I think... I think you should do your job, my dear. I always thought you were quite good, you know. Now it's time to let your side see it.”

\--------

Crowley sighed happily, stretching his reptilian body in the delightful heat of the rising sun. Smoke curled from his nostrils. “I have to hand it to him,” Crowley's deep voice purred. “That angel is a right bastard.”

He languidly stretched his new wings, and then launched into the air.

At Aziraphale's suggestion, Crowley had used his powers to shift his form into that of a giant red dragon. The physics of it were impossible to be sure, but that was just one of the many perks of being a demon. Sometimes rules just didn't apply.

He turned a lazy somersault, briefly disappearing into the darkening clouds. Storms were coming. “Better get to it, I suppose.” He dipped a little lower and settled his great golden eyes on Lindisfarne.

On the island the small town was stirring, and already men were in the fields, and the bells at the monastery were ringing, calling people to worship. It was peaceful.

Well. Not if he had anything to say about it.

With a thought, the worlds most isolated earthquakes began.

Crowley did his best not to laugh at the humans running and screaming. He swooped lower to add to the chaos, and the sight of an impossibly large, grinning dragon sparked terror as never before. People didn't know what to do. Did they race into their homes to escape the beast and risk their very roofs caving in on them? Or did they run into the fields and risk being eaten?

Crowley played with them for a good hour, but eventually the quakes stopped as his attention wavered. He'd grown bored with the task.

Far more fun were the screams of the people now better focused on the giant red dragon cutting through the air. They formed in large groups, running and turning like sheep being herded. With a great breath, fire poured from his mouth, lighting the fields like dry tinder, creating a huge wall of fire that drove the people further and further towards the island cliffs, where untouched boats waited to take anyone to the mainland.

Of course, nothing too terribly awful happened to the people. They were terrified and bruised, yes. Dead? No. There were some singes, a few cases of heat stroke, and some very close calls, but aside from the property damage everyone escaped unscathed. It wouldn't be any fun otherwise, and he knew the silly little angel wouldn't speak with him for a few centuries if he went too far, even if he was doing this as a _favor._

After a few more hours of terror and chaos Crowley got a bit bored and disappeared into the dark swell of clouds, finally letting the rain that had been building fall on the island and extinguish the last of the fires.

He appeared back on the island as a human in time to join the hordes of people rushing toward the monastery. Instead of going in with them, he slipped away, following the outer wall until he was out of sight.

As he'd hoped, Aziraphale was waiting for him. He stood against the bluff, looking out over the water towards the mainland. The rain had plastered his hair down against his forehead, but instead of being annoyed, the angel had his head tilted up towards the heavens, eyes shut, letting the water run down his face with every sign of enjoyment.

Crowley froze in place, unable to look away.

It took Aziraphale a moment to realize he was there. He smiled a bit self consciously, and Crowley had to repress the urge to lick the water from his throat. Self preservation forced him to snap his fingers, and a large tree appeared beside them, sheltering them from the rain. Another and Aziraphale was dry. If he happened to line the inside of Aziraphale's rough robes with a soft cashmere, that was obviously unintentional.

He couldn't place a name to the expression Aziraphale gave him, and found himself flushing and fidgeting where he stood.

“You were magnificent,” the angel said. His eyes were bright, his hair wild and windswept.

Crowley's hands itched to pull his angel close, to smell, to lick, to bite. He forced himself back a step. “How are things inside?” He asked desperately. “Planning to leave yet?”

Aziraphale sighed. “No.”  
  


“Wha – why the fuck not?”

“The Abbot is running a service about it now,” Aziraphale said. “They think this is just a sign of God's displeasure. There has been... too much sinning apparently, and this is our punishment.”

“Sinning? This is a fucking monastery, angel. How much sinning can there be?”

“Singing off key is the choice at the moment.”

Crowley dissolved into giggles.

“It's not funny.”

Crowley clutched Aziraphale's shoulders, doubled over. “Please, angle. Please, I can't take it.”

“We need to try again.”

“Or we can just hire a choir director,” Crowley laughed. “Clearly this is the most heinous act to ever transpire.”

Aziraphale fought a smile. “This is serious, my dear.”

“Of course it is, angel. Of course.”

“Will you try again tomorrow?”

\-------

The next day Crowley flew high over the island. When he was perfectly positioned, he flapped his mighty wings creating whirlwinds that ripped at Lindisfarne, while lightening crisscrossed the sky, striking buildings, the now desecrated fields, and even the monastery.

Inside was absolute terror.

The monastery was designed to board travelers, but it wasn't designed to hold the whole town. With a limited space to keep them, the Abbot had decided to gather everyone in the cafeteria, which by its very nature was a large and open room. All tables and benches had been moved to the side, and blankets had been brought in.

The plus side was that it was easy to keep track of everyone.

The down side was that fear was spreading like wild fire. The booming thunder caused screams and crying. The whipping winds tore at the roof and made it seem like the very walls were going to come apart. Families clung together, wondering if this might be their last night, while Monks walked between them, murmuring words of prayer, masking their own fear.

Aziraphale tried his best to be an example, and walked between the people trying to calm the ones he passed. It was a losing battle. Every time he managed to achieve some measure of peace thunder would roll, loud and lingeringly, shaking the walls. Men, women, children, all would scream and cry, their fear spreading like wildfire, and Aziraphale would have to start again.

After a while he gave up. After all, the purpose of Crowley's fun was to scare everyone into leaving, and a measure of terror was required for that.

When the Monks weren't with the people, they were in the chapel, on their knees, praying for salvation. Aziraphale moved between them, spreading the tendrils of doubt. It wasn't something he was good at, but he'd seen Crowley do it enough times that he had the basics. By the time he reached the far side of the chapel, he could feel the low thrumming of fear coming out of the room. All he needed now was for that fear to grow, and the best way to do that was to leave the humans to their own devices, letting it develop naturally.

Task momentarily done, Aziraphale stepped outside to watch Crowley at work.

Crowley noticed him immediately and drifted closer, dancing through the lightening for him alone.

Aziraphale stood in awe, robes whipping around him. Crowley grinned, and the lightening came faster, the thunder boomed louder, and the winds tore at the island with a fierce violence, beautiful in its destruction.

Crowley loved an audience, and Aziraphale was the only audience he ever wanted. He was tempted to swoop down and grab his angel tightly in his claws. Fly off somewhere, add him to his horde. Of course, he didn't have a horde as of yet, but Aziraphale would be the perfect beginning, and it would be easy to miracle up some gold. It wasn't like _that_ would be the hard part.

The demon danced well into the night. He knew from experience that a lack of sleep would do wonders to help the terror run wild. To his delight, Aziraphale stayed with him, watching until the sun broke, and Crowley flew away to give the humans a moments respite.

\-------

The Abbot called for order. The Monks were used to following his direction, and silenced immediately. The townspeople gathered in the chapel took a while longer to follow their lead, too focused on the mounting tension to notice.

Eventually silence filled the room, every eye on the Abbot. He let them sit a few minutes longer, every second that passed the more they craved his words.

“We are being tested,” the Abbot said. His quiet voice filled every corner of the room. “The Lord Almighty has seen into our hearts and found us wanting. Perhaps it was a lack of attention at service. Perhaps it was a failure to heed his commandments. Was it a moment of lust? Was it a stray covetous thought? Or was it perhaps a violent action? I have been beyond the walls of this monastery, and I have felt respect for our Lord lacking. I have walked the halls of this house of God, and I have seen a lack of devotion. This destruction is a message of what is required of us in these desperate times.”

Aziraphale stood with baited breath. Hope twisted in his chest as he eagerly waited for the Abbot's words. The Abbot was the only one who could order everyone off the island. He was the only one who could save the lives of everyone.

“It is clear what must be done.”

_Yes, yes, yes!_ Aziraphale chanted.

“We must pray for forgiveness!”

Aziraphale stared blankly.

“We must let the Almighty know that we have heard his voice, and that we are ready to seek forgiveness for our trespasses. Starting tonight –”

Aziraphale stretched his powers and touched a Monk he didn't know the name of.

“Maybe we should leave,” he said.

A small chorus of voices agreed.

The Abbot scowled. “That is preposterous. We're not leaving. God wants –”

“Maybe God is telling us to leave!”

More voices, desperate voices, cried out in agreement.

“Silence!” the Abbot shouted. “We must pray for forgiveness, not run! Starting today I am calling on a fast, and a vow of silence as we search ourselves for our sins, and pray for forgiveness!”

To Aziraphale's dismay, everyone dropped to their knees, hands clasped in front of them. He followed to keep appearances, mind racing.

“Clearly we just need to do more,” Crowley said later.

The lightening became constant, whirlwinds ripping at the land at all hours. Soon all of the crops were destroyed, and with so many people in the monastery, food was running out. The fast the Abbot had called for was helping stretch what remained of their supplies, but the vow of silence was broken. Whispered words in empty corridors had everyone on edge, counting down the days until the food ran out.

Crowley and Aziraphale weren't monsters. They made sure as close as the food came to running out, there would always be a little more that could be found. The fear would be ever present, but no one would die.

In the monastery Aziraphale spread a dark influence, and more and more whispers spread among the people. Whispers that maybe God was telling them to leave, that this was simply a warning. That it was their duty to heed such warnings.

Some of the more sanctimonious Monks twisted his voice. They claimed this was in fact God's punishment for laziness about certain religious services. That clearly the last thing they should do was leave. They would be punished more for it, and die on the way to the mainland.

In less than a day Aziraphale was all but ignored as the Monks and the Abbot focused more on penance. Aziraphale hoped the people would have a better sense of self preservation, but while many wished to leave, without the Abbots permission they were trapped.

Three days later the attack came.

Aziraphale was in the chapel with the other Monks, on his knees, wondering what to do when the commotion started.

He was on his feet and out the door in seconds. Behind him some Monks had risen to their feet, but the majority remained where they were, heads bowed.

Aziraphale followed the sound of screaming, and quickly came around a corner to the main hallway. A small army of men and women stood amongst the broken remains of the door.

The men and women wore leather armor. They each held either a sword or spear in one hand, and a large circular shield in the other. Their hair was braided, their faces were painted, and their grins were murderous and wide.

They were still for only a moment, and then flooded the hallway, killing all those they saw, laughing uproariously.

Aziraphale ran down the hallway, urging all he passed to run.

The warriors spread out kicking down doors, roaring savagely, clearly taking great pleasure in cutting down Monks, men, women, and children alike. Soon they had a fire raging beside them, flushing out those who chose to hide instead of run.

After clearing out the chapel, Aziraphale turned. He'd warned all he could, now it was time to try to stop the violence. He wrapped his angelic grace around him like a cloak and walked towards the chaos. He rounded a corner, and watched as swords plunged into the throats of the men he'd been living with for the last few decades. His heart broke for them. There was a growl as the vicious invaders caught sight of him. None of them seemed in anyway influenced by his grace, and Aziraphale knew in that moment that he was seconds away of being discorporated.

He drew himself up and closed his eyes. With any luck he would cause remorse in the one who killed him, and maybe that would lead them to rethink their violent ways.

With a roar of promise, the savage men charged down the hall toward him, craving his blood as a fish craves water.

And then Aziraphale's wrist was captured and he was dragged unceremoniously down the hall.

“Crowley? What – How are you in the monastery?”

“What were you doing you idiot!?” Crowley growled, pulling him down hallway after hallway, leaving the screaming far behind. “You were just going to let them kill you?? Are you stupid??”

“Wha – no but... what else could I do?” Aziraphale demanded hotly. “I wasn't just going to run away.”

“Well you're running now!” Crowley snarled. “So stupid, I can't believe –”

“Who are these humans?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley dragged him down another hallway. The screaming was echoing around them, but growing softer.

“Vikings,” Crowley said. “Basically... humans who really really like killing.”

“Well that doesn't seem very nice.”

“No way, angel, really? This place is a bloody maze, isn't it?”

“How are you even in here? This is consecrated ground!”

“No one gets to discorporate you, angel! _No one_.” Crowley dragged him down another corridor and stopped sharply as the far door burst open. “Nope!” A quick turn and they were heading back the way they came. At the next intersection they went down another hallway.

“Wait!” Aziraphale whirled around, grabbed Crowley's hand and pulled him down a narrow passage Crowley hadn't even noticed.

“Where are we going?”

“The library!”

“Angel, we really don't have time for this!”

Aziraphale stopped so fast Crowley ran into him. They were a tangle of limbs – Aziraphale had Crowley's wrist trapped, keeping him close, Crowley's free hand naturally fell to the angel's waist. Their noses nearly touched as they simply looked, poised as though waiting for a waltz to begin.

Crowley's brain stuttered to a halt at the feel of Aziraphale in his arms. The pain radiating from his feet forced him back into motion, hopping from one to the other.

“A-angel, we need to go –”

“Why are you doing that?”

“Seriously, I can feel their lust, they're close.”

“Well... I know it's dangerous. And you're right. You should go.” Aziraphale disentangled them, and stepped back. Crowley whimpered at the loss. “I'll find you after.”

Crowley gaped at him, still for a moment before forced back into motion. “I'm not leaving without you.”

“Well I'm going to the library. These Monks have worked far too hard on the illuminated manuscript for me to just leave it.”

“These are warriors! They don't care about books!”

“The fire won't care, it'll burn everything.”

Crowley glared, baring his teeth, but Aziraphale wouldn't be swayed. “Fine!” he bit.

Aziraphale gave a brief smile of thanks, and then tightened his hold on Crowley's hand and together they ran down the corridor.

“Does it hurt terribly?” Aziraphale asked breathlessly.

“Does what?”

“Being inside the monastery.”

“As long as we keep moving it's fine,” Crowley hissed. “Stay focused.”

The library was standing open, devoid of any humans. Smoke was heavy in the air – if Aziraphale or Crowley actually needed to breathe, they'd be in trouble. Aziraphale quickly found the illuminated manuscript, and Crowley let out a low whistle at the sight. The book was bound in gold, and encrusted with diamonds, rubies, and sapphires.

“And here I thought Monks were supposed to be meek.”

Aziraphale scowled at him. “The cover isn't what's important. It's what's inside.” He clutched the book to his chest and looked longingly at the other books. “How many do you think we can save?”

He looked over to Crowley's oddly jittery form as the demon struggled to keep his feet from resting for too long on the burning floor.

Aziraphale's eyes softened. “Thank you,” he said, his voice heavy with emotion. He cursed himself for not realizing the extent of Crowley's sacrifice for him. Had the demon even known he wouldn't discorporate on the spot when he ran into the monastery? Now here he was indulging the angel's whims while his every step was agony.

Crowley noticed the tone, and paused curiously. With a startled hiss he jumped back into motion, swearing softly.

“I could carry you –”

“Let's just go!” Crowley said. “They're almost here!”

He grabbed Aziraphale's hand tightly and pulled him out the door. Aziraphale spared a moment to look at their locked fingers, heart fluttering at the knowledge that this was just something they _did_ now.

They were halfway down the hall when the far doors burst open, and blood washed vikings stepped through. Laughter on their lips, eyes dark with a lust for blood. Beyond them Aziraphale could see his former brethren lying dead or dying in massive pools of blood.

Aziraphale's eyes flashed an electric blue. Those had been good men. He'd lived beside them for so long their loss was a physical ache.

“Angel! We need to go!”

Aziraphale turned and shoved the book into Crowley's arms. “Get out of here, my dear. I have unfinished business I'm afraid.”

“What, revenge? That's not very angelic, is it?”

“Consider it divine retribution. Go. Please.”

Aziraphale turned to the vikings, energy pouring off him, cascading in golden light. Through it Crowley could see the faint outlines of his angel's wings. It was impressive. Intimidating. And just making the vikings all the more eager to fight him. Maybe if he had a sword, Crowley would be more willing to believe he had a chance but as it was...

Cursing himself in several different languages, Crowley darted forward and hurtled the gold and gem encrusted treasure straight into the nearest viking's face.

The viking's eyes widened in surprise, and he fell back, tripping up and distracting his partners for just a few seconds, but it was long enough. Crowley grabbed Aziraphale by his collar and dragged him back the way they'd come.

“Crowley! The book!”

Crowley shoved the now coverless book into Aziraphale's arms and kept dragging him forward, dragging him out. After several minutes he stopped, jumping from foot to foot with a snarl. “Did I design the layout for this place? Fucking fuck, this is... impossible.”

More shouts were coming from behind them. With an angry snarl Crowley snapped his fingers, and a large door appeared in the wall beside them.

“Oh look, a door,” he shoved Aziraphale through and with another snap it vanished. He charged forward. Whenever there wasn't a door he made one until they reached the outer wall.

They were finally free of the building, and stumbling out in the rain. Aziraphale looked back. “No!”

The monastery was engulfed in flame and the rain falling gently from the sky wasn't enough to put it out. The roof had fallen in and below it the walls were beginning to cave, sending waves of red sparks into the night sky. No one had made it out. They were alone. Aziraphale turned to Crowley with tears running down his cheeks, clutching the book desperately to his chest.

Crowley smiled gently and shifted, becoming the red dragon. He picked Aziraphale up carefully in his claws, and took to the air, each great sweep of his wings taking them further from the chaos. He landed against the cliffs of the mainland in a warm cave he'd made for himself. He made sure Aziraphale was settled before turning back to himself.

“Angel, I'm so –”

Aziraphale lunged forward, pressing his face tightly to Crowley's neck as he cried in frustration and loss.

Crowley settled his arms around him, holding his angel tightly. “It'll be ok, angel. I promise you.”

\-------

“It's much more beautiful than I remember,” Crowley remarked as they walked through the old ruins of the Lindisfarne priory, his hand tightly in Aziraphale's. It had been a few thousand years since the church had burned, but he was still worried about his angel's reaction to the island. He studied Aziraphale's face carefully as they strolled along the cliffs outside the ruins.

“Certainly more popular,” Aziraphale remarked, watching children run and play nearby as their parents watched.

“There were kids on the island back then.”

“Not as many.”

“There's, what, three kids over there? Pretty sure there were more than three kids on the island.”

Aziraphale hid a smile. “You know what I mean.”

“Tourism is certainly more popular these days, I will grant.”

“Does it still hurt to walk in the monastery?”

“Oh, no. It's been pretty thoroughly desecrated.”

“Back then... how did you even know that you could...”

“You were in trouble, angel. I wasn't about to let anything happen to you. You're mine, if you hadn't noticed,” Crowley tugged Aziraphale closer, pressing a kiss to his ear.

“You felt that way? Even then?”

“Angel, I've loved you since the beginning, you know that.”

Aziraphale ducked his head, blushing. Crowley pressed a playful kiss to his knuckles.

“I feel a bit silly, retrospectively. I've wasted so much time.”

“We have plenty of time ahead of us.” Crowley shrugged.

“Yes. We do.” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley, and the demon felt his heart melt a little further.

“You know,” Crowley drawled, tugging Aziraphale back into motion. “I hear they have some pretty amazing grilled oysters here. Can I tempt you to some lunch?”

Aziraphale's eyes softened, and Crowley felt his knees go weak. “Sounds delightful.”

**Author's Note:**

> I am debating whether to expand this into more historical run ins... Let me know in the comments if you're interested in reading things like this!


End file.
